Unsent Letters to You
by 87e54769
Summary: Letters from Sherlock to someone, throughout all his life. Someone who was there and wasn't and someone that didn't exist. Not really.
1. Prologue

Dear You,

My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am 9 years old. I live in Edinbrugh with my Mother, whom I will refer to as Mummy more often than not, because that's how she likes it. She's really tall (5 foot, 7 inches! Can you imagine? I really want to be that tall, when I grow up, and see everything, like she does. I've always seen more than it's usual, but that's not normal. Children at school say so, and they seem to be much more efficient at these deductions than I am. Not Mummy, though because she _sees _and somehow, it works.), and her hair is starting to grey at the temples I'm not quite sure about her age, because it's not something she talks about, and it's not important. Not until she's almost gone, anyway.

My older brother, Mycroft, lives with us, as well. Well, I don't think he's my brother, we don't really look alike, and we're supposed to. He's a redhead, which is frankly ridiculous, because not even Mamie (our Grandmother, that is) has hair that red, and his eyes are a really creepy olive green. Did I mention he's also 16 years old? It doesn't make sense to me, to be honest. But at least our bickering is over interesting matters and not football, or, I don't know, the peas in the refrigerator. He's still a busybody and a smug imbecile, though.

My Dad lives in London now, and he left two years ago. He sometimes calls and he sometimes doesn't. I don't miss him, to be honest. Mycroft says it's heartless, but he doesn't miss him, either. The difference here is that I know Mycroft is not heartless, because he's got a friend called Nick, who always comes 'round during Christmas. And they just seem so ridiculously happy together, especially when Mycroft gives him Liquorice Allshots, which are nice, I suppose. They wouldn't make me grin like an idiot and hold hands with him. I think it's because he's my brother, and I hate him. Anyway, he cares about his friend, even though he ignores our father's voice through the telephone, and sometimes mocks me.

I don't have a friend, and I do that, as well, so if you take that away from the equation, I suppose I'm heartless. And that, according to most of society's standards is _not _normal. But now I'm writing to you, my Anonymous Savior (my, doesn't that sound dramatic?) You're not _anonymous_ because I don't know your identity, but because you don't exist, not really. And I need someone to help me.

And maybe... maybe one day you will be real, and you'll have saved me.

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. August 23rd, 1985

**A/N:** Nicholas Garrideb belongs to the wonderful Johnny (aka **damagoed**); I can't thank you enough for letting me use him, and for well, creating an Original Character I honestly like.

* * *

><p>Dear You,<p>

Mycroft's friend, Nicholas Garrideb, passed away three days ago. Well, I would say best friend, but I think he's the only friend he's ever had. Maybe he becomes heartless like me, now. I'm not sure I want him to, it gets lonely.

We went to the funeral at the local church today, and his parents came over from America; I had read about the ceremony in books, and studied enough anatomy to know what to expect about the body. I don't know what happened, but it felt different. Important, somehow; and it was exactly like the texts said it would be.

The casket was made of fine pinewood, rich and thick (it would be, unless they wanted it to give in under the sheer weight of hearth and humidity) coated in acrylic, colourless varnish with no religious symbols on the door, and Nick's body inside it. Pale (ash grey, skin mostly preserved, no signs of tissue weakening except for the eyes. Why were they so sunken and _lifeless_ and dark?) and rigid, his expression bland. And his hair was combed! Nobody told me they took care of those things; I think Mycroft was behind it, because not even his parents would be so fussy about poor Nick. It felt strange; he'd been racing through our grounds with his rickety bike last week. And when Mum told me I should just go home I didn't want to leave unless Mycroft had said his goodbyes. Apparently he had. So, we left. And it wasn't Mummy who held my hand all the way to the car.

And then we got home, and I went to my room. And Mycroft came after a bit and sat down on my bed, and said hello. I don't know why he does that, say hello all the time, I mean. I've seen you sit down, why would you say hello? But he hugged me, afterwards, which he doesn't always do. In fact, I'm not sure he's ever hugged me. But he told me about Nick, so I didn't kick him. And now I know why they share (shared) sweets, and ridiculous anecdotes like that, which were even more disgustingly sweet than Jane Austen novels. But he got a look in his eye, like he wanted to tell me something, something important, and how he squeezed me harder against his ribcage when he mentioned Christmas. And then he left, and didn't say goodbye. As usual.

Mycroft didn't cry. I'll never forgive him for that. If you were real, and you were gone, I would. Even if I looked like a child. Even if it would accomplish nothing at all.

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


	3. October 16th, 1995

Dear You,

Mycroft has finally, _finally_ moved out of the cottage (of course, he'd been living away for 11 years now, at Oxford, but it doesn't mean it's a relief to not have him hanging around, being so annoyingly condescending and pompous every single holiday.) Apparently he's managed to get himself a position in the government (have asked, secretary at Westminster, archive for mocking purposes) and is now making sure my first year at Cambridge is comfortable. I sometimes wonder how he manages to walk straight (it's always the ones from political sciences, the idiots. They think their public speech courses can get them anywhere. The only thing he's capable of doing if I drop out is telling Mummy and even _she_ knows it's useless.)

Have managed to scare away 5 roommates in the span of two months; Knox Overstreet, future banker, jock, didn't manage to keep his mouth shut. Acid burns in his suitcase (did you know shriveled leather makes the fluffiest carpet?). Sebastian Wilkes, Overstreet's classmate, overly friendly, found me trying to cut my hair with a fork (why does no-one understand the concept of innovative chemistry? Honestly, it's not as if most lanthanides are toxic) and now has decided to hate me. The sheer force of my brain seemed to drive him away. Zoë Owens, lit student, too weak for honest deductions. Victor Trevor, nice enough chap, tried to keep his dog inside the residential area. Dog licked puddle of liquefied nitrogen near the laboratory, died, I got the blame (experiments again. I did warn him, though.) My other roommate left after two hours, I'm not sure why. It might have had to do with the cocaine solutions under his bed.

I couldn't afford to get caught. Not now, because even if Mycroft tells Mummy, and Mummy doesn't care, I like to think you would. That I dropped out, I mean; you probably wouldn't mind the habit, because I take healthy doses. And it's my first year here, nobody has to know. If you were real, you'd be intelligent enough to understand. And quiet. And curious about my experiments, not derising.

But that would only prove that you were an illusion, because I'm not sure anyone is capable of standing me. Not for ten years, like you have. I shouldn't have shot up.

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


	4. March 5th, 2006

Dear You,

It's the first time I'm writing in a place I haven't lived in for long, and it does feel quite strange. And if my doctor were here, she'd probably come up with some excuse about olfactory stimuli or something of the sort, which would be extremely amusing, considering my bedroom, residential building and flat smell of disinfectant and chemicals. What I find terribly unsettling is that I haven't written to you in so long, you might as well have stopped existing. And at the same time, it's impossible for you to. And it still feels wrong.

I overdosed three months ago. I haven't stacked a letter for a year and a half, and somehow the time spans are reversed. I haven't written to you because this notepad is too precious to be stained with vomit, and harsh words. Not harsh words about Mycroft or bloody Sebastian or the Met, as usual, but I could have insulted you and that's unbecoming, because it's not your fault you're a figment of my own imagination. I could have written you from here, from this hospital bed, but your lack of existence would get me in trouble with my doctors. Stupid, stupid doctors; they care so much, and every time I tell them I don't they just won't shut up about it.

I nearly choked on my own vomit, and that was unexpected. Not unpleasant, though; I liked how could feel every single cell from my throat to my toes and my brain purred at the view. I don't regret taking the acid-laced batch, just for that wonderful moment when even you could be real, just like the sounds of my own tongue against the roof of my mouth sounded like a G chord, and smelt of lemon. Synesthesia is a wonderful phenomenon. I saw you, and you sang words at me._He looks like the real thing, he tastes like the real thing. My fake plastic love._ The background drum was excruciating, but you sounded mellow, and like you cared.

But now I'm here, I'll come out, eventually. A DI is willing to take my opinion into account, and if cases do keep up, I might not come back. I'm scared I'll stop writing to you; promise me you won't leave if I do? (And by this, I mean: Don't ever let me delete you.)

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


	5. January 29th, 2010

Dear You,

Mike Stamford has managed to find me a flatmate. And I found myself a lodger. And a landlady. (Again, I had to take care of the accommodation I'm giving someone who will not stay longer than two months with me, only to come back to Montague street until the next one decides to come by. Marvellous.) His name is John Hamish Watson, he's a doctor (yes, a doctor, those smothering mother hens I despise so much) and he's been in the army; he'll come around tomorrow, but considering he would be living on an army pension I honestly doubt he would even refuse the offer. I hope he's not too terrible about the experiments, and if he leaves, please God, be quiet about it. Poor Mrs. Hudson (the landlady; do you remember her from the Hudson murders? She was the wife; apparently she was grateful for my services, after all. Who would've thought it possible) doesn't need to put more stress onto her hip or heart.

He's freakishly short, as well. Dirty blond hair, graying already, funny potato-shaped nose, stern eyes. Don't ask me why, but he reminds me of that friend of Mycroft's. Nick. (I nearly delete him a couple of years ago. Remember how I couldn't forgive my brother for not crying? I think I won't forgive myself, either. He was Mycroft's You, and he was real. The first real destinatary I met, and I almost delete him.) The fact that he's already annoyed by me and we've barely been in each other's presence five minutes is not a particularly encouraging. Emptying Recycling Bin for future information about the man. (Did you know I started using the computer slang because of you? If you were made of zeroes and ones you'd even understand these commands. But I'm scared of thrashing this notepad and writing on a Word document. If it collapses, all your existence will never have existed and even if it technically wasn't something physical from the beginning, I like to think you're reading this, somewhere.)

I'm starting a countdown on the time the army doctor stays. Want to bet? I see your quiet, papery rustle and I raise you my expensive fountain pen.

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


	6. December 25th, 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I must confess I was a tiny bit creeped out when you gave me a pile of 25 notebooks this morning and then proceeded to announce you had to go to the morgue and have a look at a half decomposed corpse that Lestrade had found two weeks ago lurking the Thames' banks.

I nearly bin them, thinking they were old case notes, you tosser. I'm surprised you haven't asked me if I've read them all yet. Then again, I'm also surprised you even bothered to go to bed (although you're not on a case, so perhaps that's not that weird, after all.) Anyway, I've read them. From your first entry to the one from two years ago. I didn't want you to stop writing, even if I know why you did and I couldn't be happier.

But I want to tell you, that you can't delete me now that you've given me a name and a face, that you don't have to be scared anymore. I want to kiss you right now (would you be scared, like the first time? Would you remember Nick?), because telling you how amazing you turned out to be is not enough for you to realize that boredom is not the end of the world (now you know. I will sing Fake Plastic Trees to you every night, I promise. I will sing every soft word ever uttered by Thom Yorke if it means you won't try to run away again.)

I will call Mycroft and ask about Nicholas, and tell him that it's okay to mourn, because you simply can't let your little brother face the death of a loved one alone. And he was Mycroft's loved one, too. (I promise you I won't leave like that, and if I somehow break that promise, know that you were loved and that crying is never in vain.)

I'm going to get into bed now, before you get cold. I will write you back, too. For every letter you wrote, I will reply. Because you'll never spend another year alone.

I'm here now. I'm real, and if your giving me these letters means I've saved you, I'll gladly stay.

Love,

John Watson, or You

P.S.: You forgot (deleted?) Christmas Day. Your present is in the kitchen's tabletop.

P.P.S.: Your skull is safe.


End file.
